You were never here, yet you’ve always been here. This paradox, so apparent, unsettles you, troubles you. You’ve just arrived—here, in my place, within me, in this valley you once knew well. Yet it feels as though you’re entering for the very first time. My olive trees, my fig trees, my lemon trees—you’ve walked among them before. My air and my light, too, the mud and the spring water, the pines above you, the palms further out. You’ve frequented them, day after day. Yet, everything then had a different quality, as if you were merely a visitor, and they too were only here for a fleeting moment. Everything was ephemeral. I see it now: this is how you felt.